Twisted
by Sui Generis Paroxysm
Summary: What if the charcters in the Sherlock Holmes stories hadn't been quite who they said they were? Changing the canon, one character at a time. AU.
1. Chapter 1

Warning: FINA AU (I guess everyone does one at one point). Also warnings for first time writer. Read at your own risk.

* * *

After my many long years of acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes, I have become somewhat accustomed to the many eccentricities of his bohemian soul. I still, however, admit to some surprise when, on the eve of the 24th of April, he appeared in my consulting room via the window, looking even paler and thinner than usual. His remarks of air guns and trips to the Continent were also unexpected, but not to a degree to which I was unable to join him in his excursion. There was something very strange in all this. It was not in Holmes' nature to take an aimless holiday, and something about his pale, worn face told me that his nerves were at their highest tension. He saw the question in my eyes, and, putting his fingertips together and his elbows upon his knees, explained the situation. I was horrified, although somewhat intrigued, to hear of the intricate web of Professor Moriarty, that famous scientific criminal, and his subsequent conversation with Holmes. I agreed at once to follow Holmes' instructions to the letter, and insisted that he stay the night. Refusing, he moved to slip out the window and into the night, when he stopped and turned back to me.

"You must know that Professor Moriarty will do his utmost to stop you from reaching that station, and he certainly has enough men at his disposal to do so easily. Indeed, I am almost certain that the man I met with tonight is no more than another decoy; a ruse, if you will, to throw me off the scent. He has been told only enough to carry out the conversation with me, and now that he is no longer needed, I have no doubts as to his fate."

I promised once more that I would take care, and Holmes was gone.

The next day dawned, and I was scrupulously exact in following Holmes' plan. I took in every person on the street, and held them all under equal suspicion. No more was London a bright, bustling city filled with my friends and patients, but instead a cloud-covered, evil place. A few seemed to give me strange looks as I passed, likely all in Moriarty's employ. Why, if Holmes could employ an entire street of people to uncover the photograph held by Mrs. Irene Norton, then Moriarty could surely have everyone in Kensington Gardens watching for any sign of my friend or me. The cab driver, a large, dark man, with his face hidden by a scarf seemed most suspicious yet, and it was with great relief that I leapt out at the train station. My nerves, already shot by the harrowing cab ride, were strained even past their limits as I waited on the train for any sign of Holmes. I'm afraid that I was rather impatient with the poor Italian priest, and was stepping out to find the conductor when the train started to move. I confess to being both relieved and startled in extreme measures when Holmes doffed his disguise, but once all was sorted out, we settled in for the trip.

By the time we arrived in Switzerland, I was already thoroughly sick of sightseeing and was almost hoping that Moriarty would make a move soon so that we could return to Baker Street. Near the Reichenbach Falls, we caught wind of Moriarty close at hand, and Holmes decided that we would make our stand at the falls. The fateful day arrived, and as Holmes and I climbed, we discussed favorite memories: cases we had shared, concerts we had attended, and our lives before we met. By the time we reached the falls, we had run out of things to say to each other, and sat quietly, knowing that, in all likelihood, this would be the final time we saw each other, but not wanting to believe it. Holmes heard the tapping of Moriarty's boots on the path a second or two before I, but as the sound drew closer, we both stood, preferring to face Moriarty on our feet. He must have known we were there, for as the tapping was about to round the corner of the towering rock face, it stopped. "Well, Mr. Holmes," came the voice, distorted by the rushing of the waterfall. "And Doctor Watson, too. How pleasant. You know, Doctor Watson, I was actually considering sending you a fake note from a sick patient or some such. You would not have been deceived for long, true, but it would have given a few hours' delay while you rushed around, allowing Mr. Holmes and myself enough time for a nice little chat. I did not, however, truly think that you would allow even a sick Englishwomen at the brink of death to distract you from this. I can still give you that opportunity, you know. Just say the word, and I'll let you leave. You don't know who I am, yet, and I promise you will not be harmed."

"I stay with Holmes." I rejoined, despite Holmes mouthing "Go," in my peripheral vision.

"Pity. I did like you, Doctor." And so saying, Moriarty turned the corner.

And I found myself face-to-face with the one person I would never have expected to see. Lestrade.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs. Hudson!"

Watson leaned out the door just in time to catch Mrs. Hudson making her way down the hallway with her arms full of laundry.

"What now, Doctor?" she cried, exasperated. 'In case you haven't noticed, I'm busy!"

"Have you seen Holmes about lately?"

Mrs. Hudson's brow furrowed in confusion. "He went to that crime scene—the murder one that's been in all the papers. I think he said Gregson would be there. He did say that you knew, and since Gregson is going to be there…"

"Yes, yes." Watson cut her off impatiently, pulling on his coat. "Next time, verify that with me before you let him go. This isn't the first time he's pulled something like this, and I suspect it won't be the last."

He strode out of the door, paused, and stuck his head back in. 'Oh, and Mrs. Hudson? If he returns before I get back, do try to keep him here, will you? Thanks."

When Watson arrived at the crime scene, his first impression was of a gaggle of frightened police officers, obviously rookies, judging by their reaction to a certain self-proclaimed consulting detective's retelling of their life stories. The looks of relief on their faces when Holmes spotted Watson and dragged him away to see some crucial evidence, were quite funny, and it was all Watson could do to keep from laughing as he was carted off.

By the time Gregson finished up with interviewing the family of the deceased, Holmes was still rambling through a list of deductions about the killer.

"Still at it, then?" he whispered to Watson as he drew near.

"Yes. I hope he finishes soon, though. I'm getting hungry."

They listened to Holmes in silence for a few more moments.

"And so, in conclusion, because he had the motive, means, and historical probability, it was the butler!"

"Well done, Holmes!" exclaimed Watson, surreptitiously nudging Gregson, who seemed about to doze off.

"Wha—oh, yes, capital job, and all that. The butler, you say? I never would have guessed. We shall act upon it at once." And if his tone was somewhat bland and rehearsed, the important thing was that it escaped the notice his audience, who immediately launched into a well-practiced speech on the incompetence of Scotland Yard.

"But sir!" whispered one of the rookies. "He's wrong. We have incontrovertible proof—"

"I know!" hissed Gregson. "Shut up."

"But…"

"Shut up!"

The rookie fell silent, continuing to send mutinous glares in Gregson's direction for the rest of the speech.

When Holmes had finally swept off, the doctor on his heels, Gregson rounded on the rookie."Well Mr…."

"Bradstreet, sir."

"Bradstreet. No doubt you think that I was wrong to let him leave under the assumption that an innocent man is the guilty party?" Gregson's voice was soft and dangerous, seething with undercurrents of anger.

"Well…with all due respect, sir. Yes."

"Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes before, Bradstreet? He used to be the world's finest detective mind. Down here every day, solving crimes that we couldn't even begin to wrap our heads around. He got us out of a lot of tight spots, and almost of us owe him something. For a few of us, it's our careers. For the rest, it's our lives. Then one night, he was investigating a routine murder case, and the suspect pulled a gun on him. Got him right in the head. We got him to the hospital, but it was touch and go for a while. When he woke from his coma…he wasn't the same. It was like a three-year-old had taken up residence. He's still a deducting machine, but he comes up with the wrong conclusions. He's thinking from a three-year-old's view of the world, not an adult's, and it bothers him. He still has tantrums sometimes, and there's nothing we can do about it. His brother found a flat for him, and a live-in doctor and nurse to help. Don't know where he got them from, but those two have the patience of saints. Holmes sometimes gets it into his head that he's still the brilliant 'consulting detective' that he was in his youth, and the least we Yarders can do to honor the man he used to be is agree with him, no matter whom he accuses."

"Oh. I…I didn't know. It won't happen again"

"Of course it won't. After all, if it were to, I would personally write you up for obstructing an official investigation, and since you obviously don't want that...

"Yes, sir." The rookie quickly departed, leaving Gregson alone with his thoughts.

"Another one for our annals, Watson?" Holmes blearily asked as the laudanum began to overcome his hold on wakefulness.

Watson smiled fondly as he looked down at his patient. "Yes. Yes, I think it is." And, chuckling to himself, he turned down the gas and left to go clean up the mess in the sitting room.


	3. Chapter 3

Hopkins glanced around the room, before moving swiftly across the room to check the corridor. No one in sight. Good. Softly shutting the door, he began to strip off his police uniform. A knock at the door made him curse under his breath, and he slid into his chair as Bradstreet came barreling into the room.

"Sir! I have the papers you wanted..." He stopped, cocking his head in confusion. "Are those…tights?"

"Never mind." Hopkins snatched the papers from the younger constable, and waved him towards the door. As Bradstreet walked away, Hopkins breathed a sigh of relief, and shut the door once more, so as to complete his transformation. Within moments, he poised himself on the windowsill. Taking a deep breath, he launched himself out, over the rooftops of London and into the growing dusk. _Now_ he could really catch criminals in the way that he was good at. Mr. Holmes berated his intelligence, but really, who ever needs the intellect of a genius when they have superpowers. Certainly not... Optimum Man! Hm. He grimaced to himself. That name needed work. Running through various synonyms (prime, super, venerable, great, dandy) and immediately rejecting them all, he almost missed the burglar (obviously a burglar, look at his sack! look at his gait!) heading into the house below. Wait a minute. Wasn't that _Lestrade's_ house? Lestrade, who was at this very moment still at work, leaving his wife and infant son alone? Well, Hopkins reasoned, unless he had moved out in the past several hours, it probably was. Better go in, so as to protect the innocents and all that.

Swooping in through the second-floor window, Hopkins narrowly avoided a large frying pan which suddenly appeared in his face. "Stop! I'm here to help!" he cried as the wielder, none other than an irate Mrs. Lestrade, raised the pan higher, preparing to swing again.

"Inspector Hopkins?" she asked, peering at him suspiciously. "But why are you in tights? And that ridiculous cape?"

"Um…no, actually. I am Über Man! Protector of the weak and strong alike! I saw that burglar. May I be of any assistance?"

"Über Man? Is that what they're calling you down at the Yard now? Beats 'Hey, you', I suppose. But not by much."

Hopkins resisted the urge to slink quietly out the back door in shame. True, maybe the name did need a bit of work, but he had _superpowers_ for God's sake! That should count for something!

"Anyway," the older woman continued. "As for the burglar, I've already got it taken care of." Sure enough, there, in the corner, where Hopkins had overlooked upon arrival, was the would-be robber, out cold and trussed to a kitchen chair. "If you need to feel useful, I suppose you could re-tie the ropes. You know, for something to do. Or you could bring him to the Yard yourself. I was going to wait for my husband to get home, but it would save time."

At Hopkins' blanch, she smirked. "You know, I had a sneaking suspicion that you wouldn't want to present yourself in front of them, all dolled up in those tights like you are. I do have another idea, though."

And that was why, when Lestrade got home, he found a strange man tied to one of his chairs, Hopkins in tights and a cape, holding a diaper filled with poo and grimacing, and his wife enjoying the first real sleep she had gotten in a week.


	4. Chapter 4

"That does it!"

I threw down my pen in disgust after hearing the fourth sigh coming from my companion in less than a minute. "You are becoming quite intolerable! Either take a case from Lestrade or go see if Mycroft can scrounge one up for you! I am sick of you moping around with nothing to do for weeks on end!"

"By all means, if they have one of interest," came the languid reply, from the sofa. A pale hand gestured limply to the mantelpiece, where we kept unanswered correspondence. "But it is unlikely. Criminals these days have no novelties whatsoever. The murderers follow patterns so obvious that even Scotland Yard can see them, the burglaries are clumsy and systematic, and even the kidnappings are straightforward—all of the victims are dead by now anyway, so there's really no point."

I pried the jackknife from the recent bundle of letters. "Here's one about a missing cat and a boxer."

"Dull. It was the housekeeper's son."

"A murder. The…dreadful handwriting…Abernetty family. Something about parsley…and butter?"

"She's innocent. Check the pantry. "

"Missing person. Mrs. Etherege. She says she's written you before, but the police have dismissed it as a hopeless case."

"Her husband went missing. He's being kept at the theatre. _Do_ try to only read the interesting ones, won't you?"

I had just about given up when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Inspector Gregson is at the door, Mr. Holmes."

"Excellent!" He bounded off the sofa with the most energy I had seen from him for days, taking the stairs three at a time in his haste.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson muttered to me behind her hand. "He really does need a case, doesn't he?"

Without turning my head from the animated conversation between Holmes and the Inspector down the hall, I nodded grimly. "It's time for another one, I think."

"It's been twenty-three days. People aren't watching as closely. How about tomorrow night?"

"I don't think I can stand him like this for another day. Better make it tonight. I'll try to get him to play his violin so he doesn't hear you leave. I'll stop by later to help clean up."

Mrs. Hudson gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod as Holmes trudged back up the stairs. Clearly, whatever case Gregson had for him was too boring to occupy him for long.

* * *

As twilight fell over London, I relaxed. Holmes was scraping away at his violin, oblivious to the world, and Mrs. Hudson was leaving just now to run our little "errand." With a little luck, by tomorrow Holmes the bored addict would be gone, and we would be graced by Holmes the consulting detective once more.

The next morning, the papers were full of the news. "Mary Ann Nichols found dead!" "Local prostitute brutally murdered!" "Jack the Ripper has struck again!"

Mary (the name was too close to that of my late wife, and I shuddered when I heard it) had been found early that morning with her throat cut and body brutally mutilated. Her wounds, according to the papers "were of almost medical precision. Examination suggests a surgical knife, wielded by a left-handed expert."

Holmes was woken early by Scotland Yard pounding on the door, with a case finally to his liking, and as we headed off to the crime scene, I glanced back toward 221B to see Mrs. Hudson waving us off with a hand that was still red from all of the scrubbing.

* * *

_A/N: Jack the Ripper haunted London from 1888 to possibly 1891. Definitive victims include: Martha Turner (or Tabram), murdered on August 7, 1888; Mary Ann "Polly" Nichols, murdered August 31, 1888; Annie Chapman, murdered Spetember 8, 1888; Elizabeth Stride, murdered September 40, 1888; Catherine Eddowes, found _45 minutes _after Elizabeth Stride, and a fifteen minute walk from Stride's body; and Mary Jane Kelly, murdered November 9, 1888. Other possible victims include Emma Elizabeth Smith, murdered August 3, 1888; Elizabeth Jackson, murdered in June 1889; Alice Mackenzie, murdered July 17, 1889; and Frances Coles, murdered February 13, 1891. All of the possible victims were Suspects range from doctors to Polish Jews to Prince Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence and eldest son of the Prince of Wales. Jack the Ripper was never caught.  
What can I say? I find this interesting._


End file.
